


The games we play

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored and John has creative plans to keep him entertained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The games we play

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by sallyfuckingdonovan on Tumblr and I hope she likes it, but I thought others might enjoy as well. This went a bit differently than I expected, but it certainly contains the elements that were requested. 
> 
> Please kindly let me know about any errors or typos, as it was nearly 2 AM when this was finished and no one has proofread this.
> 
> (Update: Thanks to my brilliant beta, mistresskikimistresskikisshiphassailed, who always makes my writing clearer and better and in this case caught an important continuity problem!)
> 
> (Please be kind, I have never posted smut before)

9 AM  
They had no case on and Sherlock was going into one of those moods. He was bored and someone was going to suffer for it soon if John couldn’t figure something out. He was already starting to get sulky and complaining about everything from the fine weather and the lack of homicide to the kind of jam they had in the house. Apparently all he wanted was marmalade, when there was perfectly good strawberry in the fridge. Well, at least he was eating.

  
Perhaps John could interest him in some experimenting. In their bedroom. Something to engage his body, and his will. Something to absorb him completely. An idea began to form in John’s mind. A delightfully filthy idea. Sherlock had sworn that he had never begged in his life, but perhaps it was time he started.

  
At half 9, John had coaxed Sherlock back to bed. He lay blindfolded on his stomach.

  
“This is ridiculous, John,” he scoffed.

  
“Nonsense. You like to keep your senses sharp and besides, I’ll enjoy it, “ John said with a playful slap at Sherlock’s arse. “You have ten seconds to tell me what I am holding.”

  
He picked something up from the bedside table. The fabric had barely brushed Sherlock’s skin when he said, “Your jumper, the one with the stripes. The left cuff has smelled vaguely like turpentine ever since the case with the painter.” John laughed as he set it aside and reached for something new.

  
Soft bristles stroked Sherlock’s back. Too narrow for either his shaving brush, or the brush left from the crew doing repairs to the sitting room last week. “Ah, the calligraphy brush the museum set over to thank us for help with the forgery case.”  
“Indeed,” John said, continuing to trace the final letters of his message “And I wrote?” Sherlock tilted his head slightly and smiled. “I love my mad genius, though you wrote the word genius backwards, as though you could confuse me that easily.” Sherlock did his best to act bored, but John could tell he was enjoying their games immensely.

  
The last was guessed before they even touched him. “Dog tags, really John? These are far too simple. They make the most distinctive noise when you pick them up.”

  
“I know, you git. Those weren’t just for the guessing. I know you like the way they feel on your back.” John bounced the silver disks rhythmically against Sherlock’s back, drawing a not entirely unexpected gasp from his beloved detective, as he whispered, “Especially when I am bending you over.”

  
John set the dog tags aside and picked up a small plastic bottle. “But, I can see the guessing is not nearly challenging enough to keep you engaged for long. A new game, then? If I can do whatever I like to you, within our previously explored parameters, how long do you think you can last before you are begging me to fuck you?”

  
Sherlock threw back his head and laughed with joyful defiance, “Oh, John, you know I never beg.”  
“I only know you never have,” John quipped, pushing down Sherlock’s pajama bottoms, enjoying the slide of the blue silk under his palms. No pants underneath today. Convenient. With one hand, John popped the top on the bottle of lubricant and began coating his fingers. He nudged Sherlock’s legs further apart and pulled him up slightly, onto his knees, head and chest now resting on the bed, but his arse high. John dipped his fingers down to circle his lover’s puckered flesh, gently spiraling in caressing each little ridge until the pad of one finger rested lightly over the tight hole. Sherlock moaned and involuntarily canted his hips slightly, eagerly seeking more pressure already. But John pulled back, not ready to give him what he needed yet, resuming the lazy circles for a moment before pressing in slowly. He loved feeling his lover open up for him. To feel the carefully controlled façade Sherlock showed the world, melt beneath his hands. He slid his finger in and out, maddeningly slowly. Sherlock’s breathing was shallow, nearly panting and he relaxed further, beginning to rock and sway with the rhythm as John sped up slightly.

  
“What a greedy little hole. Ready for more already?” John taunted. Sherlock merely moaned in reply, for once seeming at a loss for words. John loved him like this, awash in a sea of sensation. He slid a second finger in, spreading them slightly. Stretching him open bit by bit, cherishing each gasp and moan Sherlock made.

  
By half 10, he was up to three fingers and Sherlock was gasping his name. He began to shake and honestly whimper as John curled his fingers and finally began to stroke Sherlock’s prostate. He alternated between thrusting and prostrate massage until Sherlock clawed the bed, moaning and shuddering. At last, shaking uncontrollably, Sherlock desperately whispered, “Please, John. Baise-moi.”

  
“What’s that, Love?”

  
“Please… God… no… just...John…fuck” Sherlock said, losing all cohesion as he began to shake, twitching around the three slick fingers buried deep in his arsehole.

  
John could see tears seeping down Sherlock’s cheeks beneath the blindfold.

  
Though he knew they could argue later about whether that ragged, incoherent tumble of words truly constituted begging, he was fairly certain that Sherlock had asked in French first. Besides, he could scarcely hold off any longer himself and happily obliged.


End file.
